


The Price of Love

by LadyFrandrews



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, grief is not an easy thing, please heed the major character death warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:12:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFrandrews/pseuds/LadyFrandrews
Summary: “There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest part, so just give me a happy middle and a very happy start.” –Shel Silverstein





	The Price of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this based off of a real life event that happened to one of my best friends a little over a month ago. Her boyfriend/fiance/husband died in her arms. This is me getting my own thoughts and feeling,s as well as channeling some of her own, out.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

I am so _tired_ of hearing the words, _“I’m sorry for your loss.”_

I am _done_ with all the looks full of pity.

I can’t even bring myself to clean my apartment—it’s been a whole month.

I still can’t function. At least not like I used to, but I’m told I shouldn’t expect to.

_This_ , this is my new _normal_.

I hate it.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t eat.

All that I see is the moment he fell to the ground—I lay right next to that spot every night, curled up in one of his stupid shirts. The EMTs told me it was pulmonary embolism.

I can’t go visit his grave—his father didn’t get one. He was cremated instead, and I don’t even get a piece of him.

I know, okay, _I know_ , there was nothing else I could’ve done. Nothing, but nobody can tell me otherwise that this overwhelming gnawing guilt I feel is irrational.

It’s not fair!

I am so angry—why him? Why now?

I’m not even mentioned in his obituary—I didn’t exist. Not to his _family_ , and not to _her_.

There’s a whole three paragraphs about the life he lived—according to _them_.

No mention of how unhappy he was with _Kimberly_. The only reason he stuck around her was because he accidentally knocked her up. I told him that I was a prime example of why you don’t stay together for the sake of a kid.

No mention of the nights spent on the phone with me while he was on travel for work. Or the times I went with him.

No mentions of his plans to finalize the house for Kimberly and their child—she wanted it to be a surprise. He always told me he thinks it’s a girl. He’d have given her the world.

He’d have left the house for Kimberly and their child, and he’d send her money and whatever supplies needed, and would stop by every day to see them.

He loved me.

He loved me _so much_.

He told me in so many ways.

The way he would always leave me a penny, heads side up, on my nightstand if he had to leave before I woke up for the day. A note always attached— _a penny for your thoughts sweetheart_. That’s how he always started our phone calls.

The way he would leave me a list of groceries I should have in my kitchen—he always knew I was so very bad at taking care of myself in that regard. He would cook for me any chance he got to. He knew I’d be content to just eat frozen pre-cooked stuff out of boxes—“ _you deserve better_.”

The way he always checked in on me with a quick call— _just to say hello, Princess_.

The silly little trinkets he’d pick up at some random gas station, or some hole in the wall shop near one of his jobs.

I hate all these _what ifs_ I’m left with. No, the _what could’ve beens_.

I know he’d have left Kimberly—never their child—for me. We talked about our future constantly. I’d be a pretty awesome step-dad—“ _you’re the best mom I know, those kids are lucky to have you._ ”

He’d add more of his things each time he came over—I have his stupid leather jacket. God I hate that thing, but I can’t part with it. Not now.

He’d tell me all the time, “ _I’m going to marry you one day, pretty boy_.” And I know he meant it; he’d promise me _for better or for worse—til’ death do us part_.

Don’t get me wrong, it took us a _long_ time to get to where we are— _were_. Fuck.

He was still an asshole, and sometimes still very psychotically violent, but he learned to channel it away from _me_ —from _us_. It might not have appeared perfect from an outside perspective, but to us, we knew where we stood with each other—we knew we were loved.

It’s been a month and I don’t know where to go from here.

I know I went to work today, but I don’t even remember getting there, or what I did all day.

His funeral was four weeks ago. I didn’t go. I couldn’t. I wasn’t _allowed_.

I did go to his viewing though; got to see him one last time before they burned him to ash.

I saw Max.

She asked me how, how _it_ happened.

I told her he died in the arms of someone who loved him just as much as he loved them.

_He stumbled against the counter, catching himself on its edge before shaking his head._

_“You okay big guy?”_

_He looked up at me with that crooked smile and nodded, “I don’t think lunch is agreeing with me, nothing serious, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”_

_He blew me a kiss and I turned back to putting groceries away._

_“I love you, pretty boy.”_

_I turned and smiled at him, “I love you more.”_

_He smiled at me, “If you say so.”_

I will never get that _thud_ out of my head— _ever_.

He went down so fast and hard—I think I still have some of those oranges under the island. I dropped them the moment I heard him hit the floor.

I yelled his name I don’t know how many times.

I don’t remember calling 911.

I don’t remember letting them in to the apartment complex. Or in my apartment.

I know I had the hardest time letting go of him when they tried their hardest to save him.

I don’t remember trying to do CPR on him myself, but I know I told them I tried.

I put that stupid leather jacket on and am now sitting cross-legged on my bed.

I found one of his awful cigarettes in the left pocket, with that stupid Zippo. I haven’t smoked in years, and I don’t know if I can now—I’ll never have this scent linger again.

I miss him.

I miss him _so much_.

I talk to him every day.

I tell him about my day—how hard it was.

I tell him how much I wish he were still here—I really could use one of his hugs.

I don’t know if this ache inside of me will ever go away, or lesson for that matter.

So far it hasn’t.

I tell him that I don’t know how to do this without him—but I’m _trying_.

And I know, above all else, that’s what he’d want from me—to live my best life.

_“I love you, pretty boy.”_

_I turned and smiled at him, “I love you more.”_

_He smiled at me, “If you say so.”_


End file.
